


this love left a permanent mark

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Mark of Cain, Past Relationship(s), Rough Sex, boys with bad coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s hands twitch into fists and Castiel can’t stand it, can’t stand the flicker of disappointment as Dean glances away or the way his right arm flexes with whatever ache the Mark has inflicted upon him.</p><p>“I just.” Dean’s jaw is clenched. “Need you to do—something.” He swallows hard, audibly. “Please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this love left a permanent mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/gifts).



> Sticking this on AO3 because it ended up longer than a thousand words! Originally written for a prompt over on Tumblr, posted [here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com/post/110073658183/since-we-have-no-other-choice-dean-and-cas). It took on a bit of a mind of its own and ended up more SAD and INTENSE than I anticipated, as per usual.
> 
> Title from "This Love" by Taylor Swift.

Dean doesn’t have to say the words. His wide eyes and blank expression are the _please_ ; the flecks of blood spangling his cheeks and the hollow of his throat are the _fucking do something, Cas_.

Borrowed heart heavy in his chest, Castiel meets Sam’s gaze over the ravaged werewolf corpse.

“Dean,” he says, “would you come with me?”

Dean’s throat flexes. He rolls his shoulders, stands up straighter, and looks Castiel in the eye, a man awaiting his execution. “Yeah.”

*

It’s the motel room Castiel has been using as his grace fades, still tidy save a small pile of his possessions on the table by the television. Room service made the bed, and it could be anyone’s, any nondescript human’s.

It’s Castiel’s, though, and he feels a regretful tug of attachment as he ushers Dean in with a hand at the small of his back. Dean’s quiet, lost in some private corner of his own mind, his hands loose at his sides and his eyes half-lidded. He goes where Castiel directs him without protest.

A long beat of silence unfurls between them.

“You coulda done it right there,” Dean says. “I don’t need pomp and circumstance or anything.”

Castiel allows himself a low chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

Dean lifts his chin, proud to the end. “Come on, Cas.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, and he slides his hand around to the back of Dean’s neck, and he kisses him.

He expects Dean to fight. Dean does, but not as Castiel anticipated: he doesn’t fight against the kiss, he fights into it. He bites a strangled groan into Castiel’s lower lip and fists both hands in Castiel’s jacket and kisses him _hard_ , wide open, all teeth.

“You can’t,” Dean hisses, the words a rush of hot air against the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “You can’t, Cas, we’re over, you know that, you’ve gotta—just do it, man.”

“I will never be done with you,” Castiel says, nearly a growl.

Dean whines, the noise caught between plea and protest. When he yanks Castiel back in for another bruising kiss, his hands work their way under Castiel’s shirt and his nails rake against Castiel’s hips.

He’s asking for it. Begging Castiel to kill him. The one thing Castiel can’t, wholly cannot, do for him.

They don’t make it to the bed. Castiel urges Dean across the room, tearing blindly at him until he feels warm skin quaking under his palms. Dean’s breathing is loud and harsh against the low hum of the HVAC unit in the corner.

“Coward,” Dean says. Low, an accusation.

Castiel wants to laugh. He’s not a coward—not anymore.

“Well?” Dean licks his lips, his chest rising and falling too quickly. “You’ve got me. Smite me, stab me, I don’t fucking—”

“I care,” Castiel says, spitting the words out before he can regret them.

Dean’s hands twitch into fists and Castiel can’t stand it, can’t stand the flicker of disappointment as Dean glances away or the way his right arm flexes with whatever ache the Mark has inflicted upon him.

“I just.” Dean’s jaw is clenched. “Need you to do—something.” He swallows hard, audibly. “Please.”

 _Oh_ , Castiel thinks, helpless. Dean’s eyes are bright, his lips parted, his throat still flecked with blood, and oh, Castiel is as powerless against him as ever.

 _Thud_ goes the wall as Castiel grabs hold of Dean, spins him, and shoves him up against it. It’s unceremonious and ungentle and Dean’s breath catches, his fingers splayed against the wall and his eyes fluttering shut.

“I can’t,” Castiel murmurs, “I can’t kill you.” Pressed close, he kisses the tense slope of Dean’s bare trapezius, salty with sweat. “But I can fuck you.”

“Do I have to say please again, asshole?”

Dean’s back is beautiful. Castiel would, if he could, take his time. He would smooth each scar with the pad of his thumb, track the dip of Dean’s spine with his fingertips, make a note of each freckle that’s appeared since Dean last let him do this.

Instead, he calls lubricant to his hand with a small application of grace—a waste of something already failing, maybe, but he can’t bear the thought of leaving the shuddering warmth of Dean’s body—and reaches between Dean’s legs. Too rough, too quick, but Dean moans and spreads his legs at the first brush of cold, slick fingers against his hole.

“Come on,” he pants, “come on, come _on_ ,” rocking back onto Castiel’s hand. No finesse, just eagerness and impatience, urging Castiel to go _faster, Cas, I’m good, just do it_ until he’s fucking himself on three of Castiel’s fingers and scrabbling for purchase against the peeling wallpaper.

His slacks undone just enough to free his erection, Castiel slides home, his hips to the soft swell of Dean’s ass, Dean stretched tight and fever-hot around him.

“ _Fuck_ me.” A breathless scrape of Dean’s voice, the back of his neck sheened with sweat.

To ask if Dean is sure would be an insult. Castiel drops one self-indulgent kiss to the space below Dean’s ear and wraps his hands around Dean’s wrists to keep him pinned to the wall. He pulls out, all agonizing care. Dean mutters a string of insults under his breath—

Castiel slams back into him. Once and then again, slow enough on his way out to feel the catch of Dean’s rim, every inch of Dean that’s swallowed him up and hates to let him go.

Dean whimpers. His back arches; he slumps. If not for Castiel holding him in place with an iron grip, he might crumple to the floor.

“Don’t,” he grits out, and Castiel freezes until he finishes: “Don’t stop.”

Castiel doesn’t. He throws himself into it, the stuttering rhythm of Dean squirming, graceless and wanting. If Dean wants to be manhandled into forgetfulness, Castiel can do that for him. He can hold Dean up, fuck him relentlessly, suck bruises into the pale skin of Dean’s neck and shoulders. Every thrust punches a series of small sounds out of Dean’s lungs, and Castiel drinks them up. Every gasp, every moan; he gathers them into his chest and lets them fuel the viciousness of how fast he’s moving, how his fingers are clutching Dean’s wrists bruisingly tight.

“Oh, Jesus.” The first words Dean’s managed in full minutes. “Jesus, I’m—”

Castiel hasn’t touched his erection, but it’s a messy affair and Dean’s been rutting against the wall, smearing it with precome. He makes a low noise like a sob as his orgasm curves his spine and squeezes him tight around Castiel.

“Dean.” Castiel tucks his face against the softness under Dean’s jaw and comes with Dean’s sweat soaking through the front of his shirt.

In the pounding silence afterward, Dean seems small. He’s pliant, letting Castiel turn him around, pick him up by the thighs and kiss him with his back to the wall that’s stained with his own come. He kisses sweetly, soft and easy like Castiel did his job right and, for now, Dean’s okay, free of his memories.

Castiel wants to offer Dean his bed for the night, but the determined set of Dean’s mouth once Castiel sets him down deters him. Next time, Castiel tells himself. He wishes he remembered the trick of making himself believe things without proof.


End file.
